


Messy

by pukajen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, PWP without Porn, Post-Season/Series 03, Pretty much just porn, Rutting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 17:04:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3658269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pukajen/pseuds/pukajen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Really?” John asked as he crowded closer to Sherlock, suddenly much more interested in the proceedings. “Do you think that the money is hidden in there?”</p><p>“Nine million pounds that really only existed in a digital sense rather than stacks of notes such as Bond villains are prone to use?” Sherlock asked, giving him a condescending look. “Ah. No.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Messy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prime_meridian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prime_meridian/gifts), [bbcatemysoul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbcatemysoul/gifts).



> Spoilers for the upcoming special. Maybe. If you squint. 
> 
> Frankly, if you're staying spoiler free; as in off all forms of entertainment and social media until after air date, you might get a little spoiled.
> 
> First off. A very big thank you to my amazing beta, soundingsea, who turned this around (multiple times) over the weekend.
> 
> Second, to H who sometime in 2010, sat me down on her couch and told me there was this new BBC show I had to see. We watched all of series one that day. She's also the one who got me to finally start using tumblr. Not sure if that's a thank your or not. Meetings sure aren't nearly as mind-numbing anymore. 
> 
> And last, to bbcatemysoul who made a passing comment, to which I made a passing comment, which ended with "tbh i would pass up the bumming in favor of them coming in their pants every single time, i live for it" and a fic was written.

John hated the bloody costume. The wool trousers itched, the starched shirt chafed. Plus, all the layers made it overly warm, even on this cold, wet December night. 

And the mustache was an bloody awful joke. 

However, by far, the worst part was the pants. 

Never again, John vowed, would he let Sherlock bloody Holmes have the sole decision making power in what they needed to wear when undercover. The prick could wear whatever he wanted to, but John wanted a vote in the future. 

In fact, Sherlock seemed quite content wearing his costume, which was close enough to what he normally wore – right down to a fucking red button hole – as to not phase the arsehole in the least. 

But never again, John once again promised himself, would he agree to go undercover without seeing what Sherlock deemed an 'appropriate' disguise. 

After so many years, it was partially John's own fault; he knew Sherlock, knew his impracticalities and eccentricities, knew to anticipate the unforeseen and roll with the unexpected twists and turns that usually made up a normal day with Sherlock. 

Black silk pants, however, were a bit beyond what was the normal unexpected from Sherlock. 

Sherlock having black silk pants was something John could have deduced if he ever thought about it – and while John no longer had any qualms about which way his thoughts tended wander when he thought about Sherlock and what he might or might not wear. Or, more precisely, what Sherlock might look like partially unclothed and lost in passion – Sherlock's underwear was not something John obsessed about. 

Often.

That all changed in the last eight hours with the pair of black silk boxers that John was currently wearing at Sherlock's edict. 

If only for the inevitable chafing in the most uncomfortable of places, John would have gone without pants.

As it was, the slide of silk with the occasional prickle from his woolen trousers against his cock, bollocks, and arse was keeping John on the knife's edge of arousal. 

Because Sherlock had faffed about for half the day on some foul-smelling experiment, causing them to missed their planned train, and the next train had only just got them in to the station with enough time to make it to the hire car office before it closed for the day, all manner of problems had cropped up. The biggest, from John's point of view, being that in the confusion the bag that held John's regular clothes and some toiletries had somehow been left behind on the train. 

As an unspoken apology, Sherlock had managed to track down John’s bag using bribes, threats, and more than a few shameless tears. However, the bag would not get to them in time for the fiasco that was the unfolding case.

So, now John was stuck with these wonderful silken monstrosities as his only option for pants. Though Sherlock claimed innocence, John strongly suspected that leaving the bag on the train had been intentional. Though for what purpose, John wasn't sure. The costumes were only part of their disguises for the weekend and John had no fucking clue what he was supposed to wear on their return trip to London. 

Maybe he could get the clothes he wore down laundered. 

Theoretically, John could collect his bag back on Monday from the central office at Victoria Station in London. Which wasn't as bad as it could have been, though Paddington was far closer and easier to get to, but at least he didn't have to go to Waterloo or King's Cross.

Until then, he was forced to wear this ridiculous costume – though in fairness, he would have had to wear it no matter what for the case until the last day when he could have put on his rumpled clothes from the trip down the day before – with the bloody mustache that tickled and pulled, and fucking silk boxer shorts that were going to drive him mad. 

Fucking Sherlock, John silently cursed.

Perhaps, 'fucking Sherlock' would be better. At least, more pleasurable, John mused. 

Right now, the man in question was studying some decades – centuries? – old markings etched into the wall of the dank catacombs in the bloody mausoleum of a manor house in Dover where they were spending their weekend as part of some crap Victorian-era murder mystery weekend couples' retreat. 

“These are over a hundred years old,” Sherlock said, straightening. 

“Great,” John muttered. “But why do we care?”

It was, after all, an embezzling case; someone had 'misplaced' nearly nine million pounds of Gertrude Sibeon Nancy Fitzgerald's inheritance and they were tasked with finding what happened to the money and, if possible, retrieving it. All for a very nice fee. An even nicer fee if they were successful. 

“Because,” Sherlock said, slowly running his fingers around the stones, “there's a secret passageway somewhere nearby.”

“Really?” John asked as he crowded closer to Sherlock, suddenly much more interested in the proceedings. “Do you think that the money is hidden in there?”

“Nine million pounds that really only existed in a digital sense rather than stacks of notes such as Bond villains are prone to use?” Sherlock asked, giving him a condescending look. “Ah. No.”

“Then why do we care about a secret passageway?”

“Because it's interesting?”

“And,” John asked, losing the last grip on his patience, “will it in any way help us retrieve Lady Fitzgerald's money?”

“Oh. Yes. Of course it will, why else would we be down here?”

Some days, it was all John could do not to pound his head against the wall. Or, maybe, pound Sherlock's head.

“How will—” 

There was a soft snick and, as John watched in fascination as part of the wall slid inwards at Sherlock's gentle push. 

“Brilliant!” John exclaimed, grinning. All thoughts of the discomfort of his current clothing, his irritation at Sherlock, flew from his head.

“From how easily the door opened, I would say that it's been used recently. And, if the current owners knew of its existence, surely they would have incorporated it into their banal storyline for this weekend.”

“You think whomever is responsible for stealing Lady Fitzgerald's money used this tunnel?”

“There's no way to know without investigating.” Sherlock smirked at him and opened the torch app on his mobile. “Shall we?”

“Fuck, yes.” Pulling out his own mobile, John turned on its torch app and together they shone the lights down the tunnel.

“I believe the tunnel was used for smuggling,” Sherlock said, his eyes darting all around. “The area is probably riddled with them.”

“Smuggling brandy and silk, yeah?” John asked for form, though he already knew the answer. Moving around Sherlock to get a better idea of how far the tunnel might go, the silk of John's pants rubbed enticingly along his cock and John cursed his life as well as Sherlock's expensive and impractical tastes and wondered what would be fitting retribution for the phenomenal case of blueballs he was getting.

“Yes.” Sherlock turned to look at John, studying him in that way that Sherlock usually reserved for when a case took an unexpected turn. “What do you know about smuggling?”

“The school I went to might not have been a posh public school like yours, but I got a decent education. Smuggling is part of history,” John informed him. “Plus, we took a couple of seaside holidays when I was a kid.” John looked around the tunnel in interest, curious as to how long it had been since someone else had been through before them. “Harry and I were forever looking for smugglers' caves.”

“Pirates used them too,” Sherlock murmured, his lips tilting up at the corners in a soft smile. 

The space between them seemed to reduce without either of them moving. John wondered what exactly it was about pirates that made Sherlock smile that way.

“Pirates?” John asked, voice just above a whisper. Remember suddenly what Mycroft had said all those years ago about how Sherlock had wanted to be a pirate when he was a young boy.

The smile that toyed at the corners of Sherlock's mouth was wistful and somehow innocent. It was an expression that John had never before seen on Sherlock's face and one he wanted to pet and protect.

“When I was younger, I was fascinated by pirates,” Sherlock said, voice soft and pensive. “I was still too young to understand that pirates weren't a rag-tag bunch of misunderstood people whom society rejected for their differences.”

John wondered at a smart, lonely little boy who never had any real friends and whose parents, though nice and smart and loving, didn't really understand either of their sons. Who had an older brother who loved and protected him at all costs, but neither could stand to be around the other for too long. 

“Did you want to join them or command your own ship?” John asked, trying to match his tone to Sherlock's.

“I wanted my own ship, of course.” Sherlock focused back on John. “Do you imagine even as a child I would have buckled down under someone else's rules?”

“No, I'm guessing you were a terror from the time you could walk.” 

“You—” that was all Sherlock got out because a noise caught John's attention and John covered Sherlock's mouth with his right hand. 

“Someone's coming,” John hissed. 

Bumping off each other – John dropped his phone, the torch either shutting off or landing face down, but that was a problem for later; hopefully, his mobile wasn't broken – they managed to pull the door to the secret passageway shut and huddle against it, listening intently.

Sound was muffled through the stone, but John could tell there was more than one person – probably two judging from the footsteps; one definitely a woman judging by the staccato taps of high heels, the other sounding heavier, more blunt, probably a man. 

“Two,” Sherlock whispered against John's ear, confirming John's suspicions.

A quick succession of steps, a small yelp, then a thump, which caused John tense and prepare to shove Sherlock aside so he could be ready to help with whomever had cried out.

“Shit!” A man's voice slurred. 

John reached to the edge of the door, though how it opened, he didn't have the faintest idea. 

“She's fine,” Sherlock breathed, catching John's right wrist and pinning it in place.

“You okay, Judy?” asked the man, sounding concerned.

“Yeah, my heel caught,” came the reply, followed by a giggle. “But while I'm down here...”

“Fuck, yes,” groaned the bloke.

A much different kind of tension filled John's body. Pinned as he was by the door and Sherlock's hand on his wrist, all sorts of images flooded John's mind. Images he was usually very careful to make sure stayed locked away whenever Sherlock was near.

Whoever the mystery couple were, they seemed to be taking to heart the 'couples' team building' rubbish this weekend was supposed to inspire. 

John's heart rate picked up and he tried not to squirm. Sherlock wasn't helping, looming over him from behind, close enough to sense but not feel the edges of his ridiculous coat swinging down to enclose John.

While the stone was too thick for them to hear the removal of clothing, John could guess when the man's cock was freed by the tenor of the moans. Judy either gave fantastic head or the man was hard up, because the noises he was making rivaled any porn John had ever watched.

“See,” Sherlock said, voice barely a whisper, “told you she was fine.”

“Think she's a bit more than fine,” John muttered, trying to shift surreptitiously. His cock, which had been half-hard for hours, was swelling and would shortly become very uncomfortable. There was the added torture of the silk that now caressed his heated flesh like a lover and the small prickles from the wool of his trousers adding a bit of an edge.

“Touch yourself,” the man said. “I love it when you touch yourself, Jude. Get off before me, if you can.”

There was a pause, then a very muffled female moan. 

“Holy, fuck, you're so hot like that,” the bloke said, then groaned long and loud; obviously he either knew no one could hear them or didn't care.

It was a fair bet that neither of the couple knew about the hidden passageway. They probably thought that even if they did get caught, they would be smirked at and given praise for fully participating in the weekend's themes. 

Suddenly, John and Sherlock were plunged into dark as the torch on Sherlock's mobile timed out. For whatever reason, Sherlock didn't turn it back on. John wasn't sure if it was his imagination or not, but he thought Sherlock drew in a sharp breath and swayed slightly closer. 

“Teeth,” groaned the bloke on the other side of the wall. Though, John wasn't sure if it was a warning or plea. 

Behind him, Sherlock moved slightly to the left. It was nearly imperceptible, but John was hyper-aware of him. The fingers on John's right wrist tightened subtly, their arms aligning so that Sherlock's covered his.

John tugged gently on his wrist, wanting to see what Sherlock would do, if he would free him or keep John tapped in place. 

“Stay still.” Sherlock's order ghosted over John's right ear and John was unable to repress a shudder of desire.

Hopefully, Sherlock would take it for anything other than what it was.

Or, maybe not. Maybe, Sherlock would deduce his shudder for exactly what it was and take action. 

John wasn't sure which option he longed for more.

Ever so slowly, Sherlock moved in – the only way John could really tell was by how his coat rubbed along his thighs and calves – until finally his chest pressed gently against John's back. 

“We need to be quiet,” Sherlock told John, his lips touching John's ear as Sherlock spoke. 

From the way the man on the other side of the wall was whimpering and the woman was moaning, John thought they could fire an RPG and the other couple wouldn't notice.

“I'm good at quiet,” John answered just as softly. “It's not me you should be worried about.”

With that, John tilted his hips so that he could push against Sherlock's groin. Both of them gasped softly at the contact; Sherlock's cock was growing harder by the second against John's arse. As if unable to help himself, Sherlock pushed back, his hips rocking slightly as he inhaled and exhaled in quickening breaths, the puffs of air tickling John's ear and jaw in the most amazing way.

John could feel the little hairs at the nape of his neck stand on end. Not the only thing coming fully to attention on his body, John thought vaguely, as he once again deliberately pushed back against Sherlock.

There was no mistaking this for any sort of slip, an accidental invasion of personal space with an inappropriately timed erection. Sherlock was more than half erect. But more, Sherlock's cock was getting harder as he gently rocked into John's arse, as he breathed heavily in John's ear.

This was no casual touch that could be brushed off, no look that lasted too long then went nowhere. This was real, this was finally happening, and John wanted to be facing Sherlock when it did.

Desperate for more, John moved swiftly and silently so that he was facing Sherlock. He reached up in the dark until he could cup Sherlock's face in his hands. His thumbs ran over the sharp angle of his cheekbones, his fingers trailed up the smooth line of his nose, along the soft arch of his eyebrows. It might be too dark to see anything, but John knew Sherlock's face better than his own. 

“So close, baby, keep—” The choked-off words interrupted John's reverent explorations. The whimpering and groaning from the people on the other side of the wall was getting louder. It wasn't that John begrudged the other couple their pleasures, it was just that whatever they were doing wasn't entirely conducive to his first time with Sherlock.

However, if it weren't for them, John was certain he and Sherlock would not be in their current situation. 

“John?” Sherlock's tone was filled with questions and laced with uncertainty. His hands settling on John's shoulders, fingers flexing restlessly betraying his worries.

“Shhh,” John hushed him, letting his lips brush against Sherlock's. “We're going to need to be quiet, remember?”

Sherlock's hands slid slowly down John's shoulders, over his clavicles, fingers splaying over his pecs, then trailing along his ribs before coming to rest on his hips. The sensation was muted by too many layers of clothing for John's taste and he once again cursed the fucking costume that Sherlock had forced him to wear.

“You have to be sure,” Sherlock told him.

John could feel every syllable of Sherlock's words forming against his mouth. Could feel the desire, the need, the desperation barely in check and knew that it was for more than just this moment. 

They were always going to be forever no matter what the incarnation: flatmates, colleagues, mates, best friends, more. Danger, Moriarty, death, a wife, anger, and mistrust had proven that. 

John was happy that they were finally going in this new direction. It was something he'd wanted since the start, but somehow they'd lost their way to this facet of their relationship early on – maybe neither of them had really known what 'this' would entail, or, maybe they'd both sensed that it could ruin them as easily as make them and shied away from becoming involved this way – but now it was the right time. 

Both were at last ready to be more than friends.

“It's all fine,” John said, his lips brushing Sherlock's as he spoke. “It's time.”

“Yes,” agreed Sherlock.

With that final acknowledgment from Sherlock, a vital part of John's control slipped, and he did something that he'd been fantasizing about for years: he kissed Sherlock Holmes.

Their mouths were already open and it was the easiest thing for John to slip his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, their tongues tangling instantly. Not in a battle for dominance, but in an frantic rush to feel everything there was. 

Too much time had passed for this to be anything but frantic. They were in a less than ideal location, there was another couple – who from the sounds of it were nearly done – only feet away on the other side of a stone wall, and John was wearing so many unfamiliar pieces of clothing that he wasn't sure he could get them off even if his hands were shaking as they tried to learn every part of Sherlock's face and neck he could touch. 

John damned their clothing, the fucking mustache which tugged oddly as he tilted his head to the side so he could get a better angle to be able to learn the roof of Sherlock's mouth, and vowed to pour whatever bottle of poncy overpriced crap Sherlock had used to make his beautiful hair a solid mass a la Victorian style right down the drain as the earliest opportunity. 

Wanting, needing, more contact, John turned and crowded Sherlock back the three steps it took so that now Sherlock's back was against the right wall of the passageway.

“John,” Sherlock gasped as their bodies came in full contact with each other: chests, stomachs, thighs, all pushing together. John could feel the outline of Sherlock's erection pressing against his lower abdomen.

“Hush,” John admonished, rising up on his toes to gently bite Sherlock's lower lip. Either Sherlock wasn't expecting John's move and the nip weakened his knees or he'd deduced what John was going to do and slid down the wall to give John better access. Whatever the reason the move changed how their bodies met up. 

And holy fuck, between both of their movements, John's cock was now aligned with Sherlock's and wasn't that just the most brilliant move either of them had ever made.

They thrust against each other, moaning softly as their cocks rubbed together through two layers of wool trousers and at least one layer of silky pants. 

John thought nothing had ever felt so fucking fantastic in his life. 

A loud cry punctuated the air, and for a horrifying second John thought it had come from one of them.

But no, the male half of the other couple sounded as if he was about to go mad with pleasure and was moaning loudly, begging the woman for more fingers. 

John imagined Sherlock on his knees in front of him, sucking fervently on John's aching cock, spit-slick fingers pushing into him, and savagely kissed Sherlock all teeth and tongue and hot breath.

Sliding his hands down, John gripped Sherlock's arse and pushed against him, making sure that their cocks stayed in contact the whole time. He was rewarded with a low shuddering growl as Sherlock grabbed fistfuls of John's wool vest and starched linen shirt.

“Feels good?” John asked, licking Sherlock's swollen lips.

“Yes!” Sherlock's agreement was echoed a millisecond later at a much higher volume as the man on the other side of the wall finally reached his climax.

John's snigger turned into a moan as the quick, jarring motion rubbed his cock along Sherlock's in the most amazing way, causing wonderful sparks of pleasure to shoot from his groin through the rest of his body.

“So good, baby,” said the bloke, words interspersed with pants.

“So good,” John repeated, with a wicked grin against Sherlock's mouth. 

“So good,” Sherlock answered, his hands traveling down John's back, coming to rest on his arse, fingers kneading ever so slightly. “More?”

“God, yes,” John whispered, once again claiming Sherlock's mouth with his own. 

The kiss was frenzied and hard, egged along by the feel of his cock sliding along Sherlock's. John wanted nothing more than to be naked, to be free, to feel Sherlock's hot skin against his own, but that would mean stopping, maybe finding their mobiles and turning on the torches, and trying to figure out these fucking Victorian costumes that Sherlock had insisted they wear.

Them not being naked was Sherlock's fault.

Growling in thwarted desire, John dropped his mouth to Sherlock's neck and bit him none too gently. 

Sherlock froze, stuttered out a whimper, his hands on John's arse clutched almost to the point of pain, then began rutting wildly against John; his movements were jerky and uncoordinated and made something deep inside John want to howl with savage joy.

John shoved his hands between the unforgiving stone of the wall and Sherlock's plush arse. Ignoring the sting of scraped knuckles, John pulled Sherlock tightly against him and began guiding his movements as best he could. 

Needing to connect in the only physical way available at the moment, John surged up a bit more and covered Sherlock's mouth with his. It was more a mashing together of lips than an actual kiss as they panted into each other's mouths. Their tongues chased back and forth, giving and taking, more agile and in control than any other part of their bodies. 

There was no mistaking this for anything it wasn't; it was savage and hard and fueled with years' worth of repressed lust. 

And it was going to be over very soon, John thought dimly, fiery licks of desire shooting along his veins as Sherlock cupped John's face in his hands and nipped at his lower lip.

John's knuckles stung with every thrust; his thigh and calf muscles were starting to shake from standing on his toes for so long. His body strained to get closer to Sherlock, as if he could somehow manage to grow the often longed-for five or six inches.

All John wanted was to be able to kiss and thrust and take and give and want and finally fucking come. He dropped his mouth back to Sherlock's neck; he could still feel the small indents his teeth had left here earlier and nibbled at the spot growling low in his throat.

John let out a hiss of pain and more skin scraped off his knuckles as Sherlock's back arched and he slid down the wall just a little bit further. 

Maybe Sherlock deduced John's frustration. Maybe his knees gave out just a bit more. Maybe he just wanted more contact. Didn't matter; this new position meant that John's hands were no longer getting bloodied along the stone wall and that he could plant his feet firmly on the ground. 

Fully using the new advantages, John took control and held Sherlock firmly in place as he rutted against him. Their cocks slotted up perfectly next to each other and John only wished that they were naked. That there was light. That there—

Sherlock shuddered against him, hips bucking.

“John!! Please,” Sherlock begged between harsh breaths, hands falling from John's face to grip agitatedly at John's hips. The new hold caused John's trousers to chafe – he was going to end up with worse marks than any rug burn from the bloody things – but right now, John didn't give a fuck. 

John sped up his movements, his left hand sliding down a bit to hook under and hitch up Sherlock's right leg until it rested on John's hip. The new angle did something nearly unimaginably incredible – pressure, contact, the fact that they were both nearly there – and John lost all rhythm and just rutted fiercely against Sherlock.

“Fuck,” John cursed, promised, as Sherlock keened softly in his ear. “Soon.”

“Soon,” Sherlock agreed, voice harsh with need in the dark, his hands gripping at the back of John's waistcoat. A fine tremor ran through Sherlock's whole body; John responded with a groan of sympathy. 

John's stomach tightened at how wrecked Sherlock sounded, how needy he was, how fucking hard. 

This was Sherlock – a man who prized his control and intellect above all else – who was writhing in John's arms. Who could barely get out words, never mind short sentences. Sherlock whom John had wanted for years. Sherlock, whom John thought he'd never have. Sherlock who was the most bloody amazing, gorgeous, incredible creature that John had ever encountered.

Dropping his head to Sherlock's shoulder, John tried his best to keep thrusting in a way that was of benefit to Sherlock as every muscle in his body started to tighten. He felt the orgasm start to build to the point of imminent release, and he longed for it so badly he thought he might just die with the wanting. 

Suddenly, Sherlock arched his back, pushing roughly into John as his hips moved despite John's rough grip, and a soft keening sound escaped his lips as he came. 

It was fucking amazing to feel Sherlock come apart in his arms, to feel that long, lanky body shudder in release. To hear the hitching breaths timed with the erratic thrust as Sherlock's orgasm took total control of his body.

Warmth seeped through their trousers and along the head of John's cock, making him shudder at the elemental evidence of Sherlock's release. Even with all the material separating them, something made it through. 

At his hips, Sherlock's fingers gripped tight, holding John fast as Sherlock rutted against him, taking his pleasure without any thought to control or dignity, only need and pleasure, and it was the most amazing thing that John had ever experienced. 

John's bollocks drew up tight to his body, his cock throbbing in sympathy with Sherlock's jittering thrusts.

Moments, ages later Sherlock collapsed back against the wall and John nearly snarled in gut-deep frustration and thwarted lust as Sherlock's body slipped away from his. 

Using the wall, John crowded Sherlock back against it. Shocks of pain shot up from his right hand as his knuckles once again came into scraping contact with stone, but that was so far from an important concern at this point as to be irrelevant. 

With a grip that was sure to leave bruises, John hitched Sherlock's leg back up over his thigh. John surged up, angling his hips so that he could feel Sherlock's cock, still mostly hard, against his own. 

It was all very quick, nearly savage. 

Getting a mouth full of tweed, John again bitterly cursed their fucking costumes as he sank his teeth into Sherlock's left shoulder as he thrust in a lust-filled frenzy, desperate for release.

“John,” Sherlock murmured in a rough pant, weakly moving so that John had better access to everything he needed.

Though there was no light, flashes of red and white danced before John's eyes an instant before his orgasm crashed over him, pleasure clenching and suffusing every single part of his body. Shudders rolled through him continuously and John wondered if they might just make him pass out.

Nothing in his life had ever felt this good. Or this terrifying.

When reality started to come back to him, he was slumped against Sherlock, who was gently running his shaking hands over John's arse. Both of them were still breathing hard. Under his mouth, John could feel Sherlock's heart still racing. 

It was only then that John realized that his teeth still pressed into Sherlock. He wasn't biting any more – he hoped to hell that he hadn't torn a hole in Sherlock's jacket, as there was no way he would ever hear the end of it if he had – but his mouth was still pressed into Sherlock's shoulder. 

Tweed tasted bloody awful, John thought as he rested his forehead against Sherlock's neck.

“Holy fuck,” John said softly once he was sure he could speak again. 

“Indeed,” Sherlock said just as softly, turning his head to nuzzle John's ear. 

It hit John suddenly that he had no idea if the other couple was still on the other side of the wall or not. He hoped to hell that they had left because he had no idea how loud either of them were at the end. Everything was a bit hazy.

His pants felt sticky and he realized that there wasn't going to be a good way to hide what was bound to be a pretty obvious stain on the front of his trousers. Not with two contributors. 

“Fuck,” John cursed.

“Is that an expletive in general, an verb of a future hope, or an adjective describing the current situation?” Sherlock asked.

“All three?” John offered as a grim joke. 

Beneath him, John felt Sherlock tense and he realized that his words were probably not the most reassuring.

“If that's—”

“My pants,” John spoke swiftly over Sherlock, “and trousers are soaked with our come, there was a couple on the other side of this door who may or may not have heard me while I had one of the most powerful orgasms of my life. So, expletive.” John gathered his strength and reached up to cup Sherlock's face in his aching hands. “There's no question in my mind that we will be fucking again. And soon.” John stretched up and kissed Sherlock softly. “And, just, fuck. That was amazing.”

Sherlock didn't say anything, just brought his arms up to encircle John's back and pulled him tightly against his chest. Letting himself be held, John slid his right hand to the base of Sherlock's skull and hooked his arm around his neck. His left hand gently stroked Sherlock's cheek, along his temple, and along his forehead following Sherlock's hairline. 

“If anyone notices, they'll just think we were enthusiastically joining in the weekend's sentiment.”

John snorted and nuzzled the approximate spot on Sherlock's shoulder where a bruise was most certainly forming. 

What he wanted to do was card his hand through Sherlock's hair – a fantasy that John had held close to his heart for years – but even after everything they'd done, whatever overpriced crap Sherlock was using – and there was no way that the poncy git wasn't slathering his precious hair with something that cost more than John usually spent on a shirt – Sherlock's hair was slicked in place.

“Hate that fucking hair gel,” John told him.

“It's period-appropriate,” Sherlock informed him with a sniff. “I couldn't find what I was looking for through my usual sources, so I had to make some. It took some trial and error.”

John wondered whether Sherlock had experimented on his own hair or what poor sod had been the unwilling – likely unknowing – subject before he'd perfected his formula. 

“Don't care,” John said. “I want to be able to run my fingers through your hair.”

“Oh.” 

“Next time.”

“The other couple is gone,” Sherlock announced, apropos of nothing. 

“When?”

“No idea.”

“Really?” John asked incredulously. 

“I was otherwise distracted.”

“You were otherwise distracting?”

“As were you.”

“You were gorgeous.”

“John, you couldn't see me; there's no way to know if I was gorgeous.”

“I don't need to see you to know that you're gorgeous.”

Sherlock shifted against him and with amazing accuracy covered John's lips with his own. 

This time, their kiss was long and slow and filled with future hopes. It was gentle and thorough and wonderfully languid. Their tongue, curled together, their lips played softly over the other's, taking turns leading and affirming. 

Promising. 

They stood there like that – lips lazily exploring, tongues reassuring without words, bodies touching without the pressing desire for more – for ages. 

John hissed as pain shot through his hand when he bumped it against the wall.

“What's wrong?” Sherlock asked, breaking the kiss.

“Scraped the shit out of the backs of my hands.”

“How? When?”

“Really, Sherlock?” John asked with a laugh. “The walls are made of stone and my hands were on your arse for an extended period of time. Deduce.”

“Will you be alright?” Sherlock inquired. Pushing John back gently, Sherlock reached up to take John's left hand in his right. In the dark, Sherlock gently ran his fingers along the ridges that made up the tendons and bones of the back of John's hand.

“Don't think it's that bad,” John told him, and was suddenly blinded by Sherlock's phone. “Christ, Sherlock, tell me when you're going to blind me.”

“You're hardly blinded. It'll only take a couple of seconds for your eyes to start to adjust to this light; within minutes, you'll be fully adjusted.”

“Still, a little warning would be nice. I would have averted my eyes to minimize the worst of the effect.”

“Your hands are going to need some ice and some antibacterial cream. There's no telling what sort of bacteria lives in these walls.”

“You know, I'm suddenly grateful we couldn’t remove our clothing,” John said wryly.

“Next time,” Sherlock promised.

“Next time,” John agreed. “Let's get out here, get cleaned up, put on proper clothing, and come back here and explore.”

“Agreed. Except, we need to stay in period-appropriate clothing or we risk getting ejected from the premises.” Sherlock glanced down at his phone, fiddling with it to pull up the schedule. “We have twenty-seven minutes before the next planned clue activity.”

“Yeah, I don't see the down side there.” 'Clue activities' were when every couple gathered in the Great Hall and were given envelopes. They could either go off on their own or try and form alliances with other couples. John hated every minute of this whole thing.

Well, he mused, leaning in to kiss Sherlock, maybe not every minute. 

“John.” Sherlock's tone was aggravation mixed with amusement – it was a tone both used frequently – though even in the dim light, John could see the smile in his eyes. “We should go up separately as not to arouse unwanted suspicions as to our activities.” 

“Weren't our 'activities' the whole point of the weekend?”

“Maybe,” Sherlock conceded, “but not down here. Not with the signs of recent clandestine activities.”

“Right.”

Sherlock took John's injured hands in his own and to John's shock, brought them up to his mouth and placed tender kisses on the least abraded spots on each hand. “You should go first. Deal with these.”

“Fine,” John grumbled. “I'll go back to our room, take care of my hands, and meet you back down in the Great Hall; then we can head back here after everyone has gone off on their wild goose chase.”

Using the light of Sherlock's mobile, John found his, luckily unbroken, and together they found the mechanism to open the hidden door.

“The butler did it,” Sherlock told him.

“What?” John asked.

“In case you're wondering, it was the butler.”

“How predictable.”

“Indeed.”

Stepping out into the catacomb, John took in Sherlock's appearance in the better light. While not one hair seemed to be out of place, the rest of Sherlock was a mess: colour rode high on his cheekbones, his clothing was rumbled, and his eyes had was the unmistakable blissed-out look of someone who had recently experienced a fairly fantastic orgasm. 

“Try not to get seen by anyone,” John told him. “You going to come to the room to clean up?””

The intense look that Sherlock gave him was enough to stir some renewed interest, and the absolute last thing he wanted was to be sneaking back to their room wearing stupidly uncomfortable damp wool trousers and silky pants that were now practically glued to his crotch with cold, uncomfortable come, with the addition of a hard-on. 

“Best you do the same,” Sherlock said with a knowing smile.

John grinned at him. The urge to grab Sherlock and kiss him before they parted was one that had been pushed down so many times before that John instinctively did it again before realizing that he really could kiss Sherlock good-bye.

No longer needing to stop himself, John grabbed Sherlock's wrist, gently spinning Sherlock to face him. The questioning look that Sherlock shot him lasted all of a second before a soft smile gently curled the corners of his lips. 

Stretching up as Sherlock bent down, they met in the middle for an easy, closed-mouth kiss. 

“See you in ten or fifteen minutes,” John mumbled against Sherlock's lips as he pulled away. With one last smile, eyes taking in Sherlock mussed, but composed once again, John headed up the stairs, listening carefully to make sure no one was around.

Despite the rapidly cooling sticky mess in his pants, John didn't know the last time he felt this happy. Also, despite the contradiction, this at peace and excited at the same time. But, then the mass of contradictions that made up his relationship with Sherlock was always what had made it so unique. This new aspect of their relationship wouldn't really change the core of them, it would just be an added, vastly pleasurable facet.


End file.
